


Photograph

by missroserose



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Cooking, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Baggage, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 12:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17121668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose
Summary: A not-quite-Christmas dinner between two not-quite-friendly boys who can't seem to stay out of each other's orbit.





	Photograph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lantislyfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lantislyfe/gifts).



> Happy holidays, [lantislyfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lantislyfe/)! It was fun stalking your tumblr for ideas.
> 
> Shoutout to [blahblahblahcollapse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahblahcollapse) for beta-ing and general cheerleading. You're the best.

“Christ, Harrington, what is with this music?” Billy wrinkles his nose as Steve puts the pot of water on to boil.

“Music helps with cooking. Activates the creative portions of your brain.” Steve slaps a lid down on the pot and reaches down to grab a skillet. 

“Fine, but…what even is this shit?”

“It’s Chet Baker. Only one of the greatest jazz artists of this century.” Steve knows very little about jazz, in truth, but he figures he knows more than a metalhead Philistine like Billy Hargrove. “Listen a bit. You might get some culture.”

“Culture’s what grows on rotten food. Not unlike this crap.” Billy stalks out of the kitchen, and a moment later Steve hears the front door open and shut.

He sighs. Billy’s a puzzle. The past couple of months, he’s been quiet, withdrawn even; snarling at hangers-on and challengers alike. And with Steve, he’s been…downright strange. Not apologetic, not exactly, but less of an outright asshole. Even, in occasional moments, friendly. Or as friendly as Billy Hargrove gets, anyway. Offering a cigarette after practice. Telling Tommy off when his jabs at Steve grow too damaging. Exchanging more than five words while they wait for the kids to finish at the arcade. Which seems like it takes up half of Steve’s life, these days.

Steve’s wary of him, of course. You don’t stick your hand in a viper’s nest again after being bitten. But he’d asked whether Billy was having Christmas dinner with his family, and Billy had made a noise in the back of his throat and growled “not if I can help it,” and suddenly Steve’s mouth was open and he was inviting Billy to his place, even as his brain—or the part of his brain that sounds just like Dustin—caught up with _no no no, what are you doing, you don’t play mom to_ Billy Hargrove, _he’s a psychopath!_

For a moment Billy hadn’t answered, and Steve was half-convinced he was going to get a sock to the jaw for his moment of stupidity. But then Billy had just said, “No Christmas music.”

Steve, surprised, had said the first thing that came to mind. “I didn’t even put up a tree. Didn’t seem much point when my parents are off in the Mediterranean somewhere.”

Billy had given Steve a look he couldn’t interpret, but he’d agreed. And now here they were.

Or here they weren’t. Steve runs his tongue along the underside of his teeth, wondering if he’s ever met anyone as prickly as Billy Hargrove. Come over for dinner, he’d said. I’ll cook, he’d said. Never mind that he could only really make one dish; if pasta five days a week was good enough for him, it was good enough for Billy Hargrove for one not-really-holiday dinner.

Except, apparently, it wasn’t. Or Chet Baker wasn’t. It’s not like spending the night alone is any different from any other night, but it’s _Christmas_ , and he’d hoped...well, clearly it doesn’t matter what he’d hoped. He slips fingers into his hair, tightening them until his scalp protests. He’ll just have to eat the pasta himself, he decides, dumping the sausage into the pan—

The front door opens again. “Hargrove?”

“Just a sec.” A moment, and then Steve winces as he hears the needle torn across his parents’ vintage jazz record. He can hear Billy mutter “How many buttons does a stupid overgrown boom box need…?” as he jabs at the hi-fi.

Then the stark shimmer of plucked guitar strings in a minor key emanates from the living room, just as Billy reappears in the kitchen doorway. “Since you like the whiny sad shit, here. Have some real music.” 

“I’m not sure that qualifies as ‘real music’,” Steve says, looking down at the pan so Billy won’t see him smile. For his part, Billy only disappears again, and a moment later, the music’s volume increases. “What’s that, Harrington?” His voice, coming from the living room, is barely audible over the music. “I can’t hear you!”

Steve laughs a little and shakes his head, stirring the sausage. “You win, Hargrove,” he answers, raising his voice in return. “We’ll cook to Def Leppard. But I’m not taking responsibility if you go all aggro on me and chop off a finger.”

“Good thing you’re doing all of the chopping, then.” Billy reappears as the guitar chords begin to swell. 

“Oh? What are you planning to contribute, then?” Steve resolutely ignores the fact that he’s already slicing the onion. Like he’d trust Billy Hargrove with a sharp implement in his house, anyway.

Billy wanders over to the counter next to the sink, swipes the bottle of wine off of it and jumps up, plopping his ass on the surface and dazzling Steve with his best shit-eating grin. “My expert observation.” He grabs the end of the cork between his teeth and pulls it out, spits it off to the side with a puff of air. “And my wine-tasting skills.” 

“You probably don’t want—” Steve shuts up as Billy upends the wine bottle into his mouth, and just watches. He’s rewarded almost instantly as Billy’s eyes go wide and he coughs and does an honest-to-god spit take, spraying red wine all over the kitchen. Steve doubles over laughing, almost on the floor in front of the stove.

“What is wrong with you, Harrington? And why the fuck do you have spoiled wine on the counter?” He glares at the bottle as if it’s delivered a personal insult. “And I thought I knew cheap wine. What is this shit?”

Steve is gasping for air, but just manages to straighten up in time to catch Billy’s glare. “It’s cooking wine, dumbass. There’s, like, a buttload of salt in it.”

“Is this what you rich people drink? No wonder you all look so dried-up and puckered by the time you’re thirty.” Billy puts the bottle down beside his hips and leans over toward the sink, cups a little water into his hands before splashing it into his mouth.

“It’s not for drinking, _obviously_.” Steve takes the bottle out of the danger zone of Billy’s reach and sets it next to the stove. “If you’re so determined to get drunk, at least take the good booze.” He opens the cupboard over the stove, stands on tiptoe, swipes a bottle from the collection stashed there. “Whiskey okay?”

Billy hops down from the counter and struts over towards the stove, gives Steve a leer. “Anything to get the taste out of my mouth, pretty boy.”

Steve gets a pair of tumblers out of the cabinet and pours a couple of fingers of whiskey into them. “Here. To not being alone for the holidays.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Billy says. He raises his glass in a toast, then upends it in much the same way he did the wine bottle. 

Steve watches in a mixture of admiration and annoyance as the whiskey slides easily down Billy’s throat No wonder Billy beat his keg-stand record so easily. “This is the nice whiskey, dumbass. You’re supposed to sip it.”

To his credit, Billy’s face is almost impressed. “You aren’t kidding. That’s some good shit.” Holding out his glass for a refill, he asks, “What’s with your parents? Are they Jewish or something?”

“No, they’re not religious. Mostly they just…ignore me. Ever since I got old enough to say no.” 

“Say no to what?”

Steve shrugs. “Everything, really.” A moment’s pause, just enough to make his point, before he takes Billy’s tumbler and refills it. “They used to love dressing me up. Taking me on ski trips and to Christmas villages. Getting our picture taken.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the living room, where many of those pictures reside, carefully framed and displayed. “All the stuff rich families are supposed to do. And one year, I just kind of…got sick of it. It all felt so hollow.”

Steve looks up to hand Billy his glass, and catches something unfamiliar in his expression—in anyone else, he’d swear it was understanding. He’s abruptly very aware of how close Billy is standing. 

Then Billy smiles again, rolling the glass between his fingers, as if considering some kind of clever remark. But he only raises his glass and clinks it against Steve’s. “Here’s to the power of saying ‘fuck it’.”

This time, Steve shoots the whiskey with him.

When they come back up, Steve can’t help but notice Billy’s mouth, still wet from the whiskey. He can almost taste it, wet and warm as Billy’s tongue—

“Hey, pretty boy.” Billy’s voice is dark, low, and Steve’s eyes snap back to his. A beat. “How crispy is that meat supposed to get?” 

“Huh?” Steve turns to look at the pan, which is beginning to smell distinctly caramelized. “Shit!” He turns down the heat and gives the sausage a quick stir, adding in the onions to the sound of laughter and liquid splashing as Billy refills their glasses. Steve turns back, pointing the spoon at Billy. “Stop distracting me, dickhead.”

“Come on, now, Harrington. Would you ask a fish to stop swimming? A jaguar to stop hunting?” Billy takes his glass and hops back up on the counter. Strikes a pose, one that shows off his chest to advantage, downs a sip, licks the whiskey off of his lips. “How do you expect me to stop being so goddamn distracting?”

Steve only shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he takes a sip of his own, cracks open the jar of tomato sauce and dumps it in, the sizzling of the sausage momentarily muffled. “Clearly I must be an idiot.”

“Aw, don’t look so down.” Billy puts one foot up on the counter, rests an elbow on his knee, his free hand in his curls like a goddamn shampoo model or something. “You’ve always got that pretty face to get you through. _King Steve_.”

Someday, Steve thinks, as he resolutely watches the pan, he’ll understand how Billy can make that epithet sound simultaneously like a pet name and an obscenity. “I must be pretty, if you’d skip out on Christmas with your family to spend it with me.”

For a moment, there’s quiet, and Steve looks up just in time to catch the twist of Billy’s face before he takes a generous swallow of the generous glass he’s poured himself. “Holidays with my family are bullshit,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Either we’re eating dinner together, pretending to be all happy and normal, or my father is getting drunk off the champagne before Susan even has a chance to start cooking.” Another swallow. “Those years, she usually ushers Maxine off for Chinese.”

Steve processes this for a moment, stirring the sauce. “What about you?”

Billy’s smile is more of a grimace, teeth bared. “I’ve learned to make myself scarce.”

The sauce is beginning to bubble, and Steve turns the heat down and checks the water. Nearly boiling. “Dinner’s almost ready. I just need to cook the pasta.” 

“And you?” Steve turns; Billy’s come down off the counter, is leaning against it now. “Is your father an asshole?”

Steve shrugs, surprise at Billy’s bluntness mingling with a weird sense of embarrassment. “Not really. Lately he just pretends I don’t exist. Or not even that, just…we have nothing to talk about. I’m not interested in business. I’m not sure I want to go to college. Frankly I could give a shit about keeping up with the Joneses. I’m not even sure I want to get married, not after what happened with Nancy.” He takes another sip of the whiskey. “I don’t know, I guess…I don’t know what I want to be, I only know that I don’t want to be like _him_.” He catches his breath, surprised at the sudden stab in his gut that the words cause. 

At that same flicker of understanding in Billy’s eyes he just barely catches when he glances over. 

Billy’s response is forestalled by a growl from his stomach, audible over the music and the bubbling of the sauce alike. Steve glances down at it. “Just a moment, big guy, we’re almost ready.” He takes the pasta and puts a couple of handfuls into the boiling water. Sets the timer.

Billy’s mouth stretches in a lascivious grin. “Are you talking to my dick, Harrington?” 

Steve glances up, and raises an eyebrow, a little hollow with both relief and disappointment at the return to form. “When I’m talking to your dick, Hargrove, you’ll _know_.”

Billy laughs, delighted.

*

Given how often it’s happened in his life, it feels unfair that Steve is always the last to figure out when things are going wrong.

“So many carbs.” Billy pushes away his empty plate, making a satisfied noise. “If I gain ten pounds tonight it’s on you, Harrington.”

“This from the dude who does a keg stand at every party.” Steve is still working on the remnants of his pasta, twirling the strands idly with one hand. The food and the whiskey are settling contentedly in his belly, suffusing him with a sort of warmth that he might even call _holiday cheer_.

“That’s different. Gotta keep my keg king credentials in good order.” Billy flashes a toothpaste-billboard smile. “Can’t have some upstart stealing my crown.”

“Been there, done that,” Steve sits back in his chair and laughs. “It’s a lonely life at the top. Nobody appreciates the hard work you do.”

“Hell of a lot better than life at the bottom.” Billy holds up his empty tumbler in a mock toast. “Up here, I’m untouchable.”

Steve scoffs. “Hardly. The problem with being at the top is that everyone and their mother wants a piece of you.” 

Billy spreads his knees, his arms, gives a charming smile as if in offering. “Good thing there’s plenty of me to go around, then.”

“And when there’s nothing left?” Steve’s voice is soft as he watches Billy; his fingers rotate the tumbler in small increments, making a scraping sound against the tabletop. “When people move on to the next interesting thing? When you realize you’ve been dropped like an old hat because you dated the wrong person?” He holds the glass up, observing the color of the whiskey. “It’s a shit game, man. Even when you win, you lose.”

Billy’s face has gone blank. “Aren’t you the lucky enlightened one.”

“Am I? I lost all my friends. My social life.” He downs the dregs, setting the glass on the table. “Eventually even my girlfriend. To the school _creep_.” And some part of him says maybe that’s not fair to Jonathan, but the greater part of him feels the truth behind the statement, the way it still stings when he prods at it, a bubbled-over blister. “What’s the point, really?”

“The point is _status_.” The rough edge of Billy’s voice finally catches on Steve’s awareness, penetrates the fog of self-pity that’s surrounded him more or less constantly for weeks now. “Shit happens to all of us. Try having all of that _and_ the word ‘faggot’ spray-painted across the side of your car.” He pushes back his chair and gets up, stalks over into the living room. A moment later, Def Leppard starts blaring out again. 

Steve blinks. Wonders where that came from. Wonders whether to press. But his heart is pounding and he’s sweating and the music is rattling into the kitchen—

— _ridin’ into danger, laughin’ all the way_ —

Fuck it. Steve follows Billy into the living room, sees him leaning on the hi-fi. “Get over yourself, Hargrove. Your _status_ means nothing if nobody gives a shit about you.”

“Is that what you’re so torn up about? Your pretty lonely rich boy life?” Billy’s face contorts with contempt. “You sit here in your fancy house at your fancy table in your fancy kitchen with your fancy fucking organic pasta and you tell me that popularity is a shit game? You don’t know what it’s like at the bottom, _King Steve_. You’re a fucking toddler that’s tripped and skinned its knee and decided it’ll never walk again.”

“People don’t like you, dickweed. They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

“They should be afraid.” Billy’s hands are balled into fists. “You should be afraid.”

Steve laughs, and even he can hear the frayed edges of it. “I’ve faced down worse than you, Hargrove.”

That toothy grin again, wild. “You don’t get it, do you, Harrington? This isn’t about a beating. This is who I am. _I break things_.” In one smooth motion, he grabs a framed photo off the mantelpiece and hurls it through the doorway into the kitchen, where it makes a crash. 

Steve looks after it for a moment. Then he turns, deliberately, and presses the stop button on the tape player. Turns back to hold Billy’s gaze. The sudden silence presses against his eardrums with an almost physical presence.

“Newsflash, asshole,” he says into the quiet. There’s a burning sensation in his eyes, his throat, his heart, but his voice is steady. “I’m already broken.”

The words _just like you_ hang in the air between them, unspoken.

Then Billy surges forward, crashing toward Steve with the force of a tidal wave. Steve tenses, unsure, until Billy’s pressing him against the wall, their lips almost mashed together, tongues and teeth half-meeting, half-fighting for dominance. Steve wonders, somewhere in the back part of his mind, if they’re kissing or biting. Wonders if, for the two of them together, there’s even a difference.

After a moment, Billy pulls away, eyes full of cigarette smoke and broken promises. “I don’t want to be your _friend_.” 

Steve can feel the answering wildness in his eyes as one corner of his mouth lifts in a distinctly Billy-esque smile. “Then show me what you do to your enemies.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://missroserose.tumblr.com/) and [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/missroserose), come say hi!


End file.
